Tom's Girls
by Atypical16
Summary: Accounts of various ladies, magical or not, influenced by a young Tom Riddle.
1. Merope Riddle

_London, 1926_

It was starting to snow again. For the first time in, oh, three weeks, coins clinked together in her pocket. Before, the pocket of her tattered, rank-scented cloak had been weighed down by the locket. Up until an hour ago her most prized possession, but right now her most prized possession was Tom's baby inside of her.

If she was honest, Merope was glad to have gotten rid of the locket. Although she knew it was worth much more than what that slime Burke gave her, she was relieved with just ten galleons. The locket had been her last link to a world she no longer belonged to, if she ever had.

In addition, she wasn't exactly in a position to bargain. If she lost any more weight, she wouldn't be able to stand or walk; her swollen abdomen would topple her over.

After a hasty meal of a biscuit and tea, Merope continued to wander the streets, letting snowflakes catch in her hair. She was recharged, but it wouldn't last long. Baby Tom took all of her energy for himself.

It was not as if there was anything else to do but walk. Tucking her long hair into the cloak, Merope meandered down Vauxhall Road, keeping her eyes on the shop windows. The muggles out and about gave her a wide berth, as if the very sight of her repelled them. She knew she looked and smelled terrible. It had been sixty-three days since Tom left her. She was starting to wonder which would be her last.

Up ahead, there was a fancy beauty parlor, the kind perhaps that awful Cecilia would have gone to. Merope often daydreamed about going inside one and having a lady cut her snarly, light brown hair to her chin and carefully sculpt it with her fingers. Then she would look in the mirror and marvel at how pretty she looked.

But who was she kidding? Merope had never been close to pretty, and she never would be.

Snow had started to dampen her cloak, emitting a smell similar to a barn in the summer. It was time to seek shelter. Lately, the cold seemed to penetrate quickly straight to her bones and nestled there, refusing to budge. Dreading the thought of sleeping in a seated position under an awning, Merope hurried her pace, searching for an abandoned building. There were a couple in Diagon Alley, but she had vowed to never step foot there again. She had officially resigned from the magical community.

A few minutes later, she found herself standing in front of one of the most beautiful buildings she'd ever seen. It was large and white, with a pointing tower like a castle, except only one section, smack in the middle of London. Over black wooden doors, a stone carving spelled out a phrase in Latin, which Merope didn't bother to try to decipher—she could barely read in English. The most odd and eye-catching of the structure was that one of the doors was open, releasing a warm yellow glow into the night.

Slowly, clutching her heavy midsection, Merope made her way up the stairs and took a step through the door. A gold and stone plaque was displayed in the tiny foyer:

 _St. Mary-le-Bow_

 _1666_

 _Diocese of London_

 _Morning and evening prayers: 8:15 and 17:45_

 _But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you._

 _John 14:26_

 _The Holy Spirit, hmm?_ Merope thought skeptically. She'd never heard of such a person, but at this point she'd take any help she could get. She peered her head inside and let out a quiet gasp.

The room was large, warm, and beautiful. The floors were marble, the walls crisp white with gold details, and the ceiling was curved with blue panels. There were rows of wooden chairs facing the front, where a mint-green clothed table sat with two long, lit candles. Behind that, the lower part of the wall was wood-paneled. Above that, large, curved windows made of bits of different-colored glass depicted figures of three people that were robed like wizards. Perhaps this was a magical building after all?

Without realizing, Merope had taken several steps inside the vast room. The chairs were empty save for one elderly lady with a grey knot of hair seated in the front. She was leaning forward, eyes closed and smiling slightly.

Merope knew she should get out of there—this was no place for an ugly wretch like her. But it was so very _warm_ and calm and inviting. She could at least stay until she was tossed out. Having been tossed out many a place in the past few months, harsh words and snarls were nothing new, no longer affecting her.

Even the chair was warm. She hadn't realized how badly her swollen legs and feet had been hurting; the bones in her ankles cracked as the weight was lifted off. She was slightly feverish, her stomach churning with unfamiliar substances. Baby Tom was now pressed painfully against her ribs and hips, but the relief on her feet outweighed that discomfort.

Just below the chair in front of her, there was a padded square suspended about an inch from the ground. What in the name of Merlin is that for? Merope wondered, but her question was answered a moment later by the other lady, who knelt on the square and touched her fingertips to her forehead, chest, and two points under each of her collar bones in succession. She was staring reverently at something Merope hadn't noticed upon her arrival. Suspended from the curved ceiling, there was a statue of a man on a cross with other figures surrounding him, looking up at him. How awful it must have been to be in that position!

Perhaps Merope should have knelt on the padded square as well? But she was so exhausted, so comfortable…

Footsteps were approaching; the elderly lady had risen and was now advancing toward the other. _Ah, swell, here's the part where I'm told to scram_ , Merope thought grimly, though she wasn't too fussed. At least her cloak and hair had started to dry. The lady stopped next to Merope's chair.

"Trust in God and He shall not lead you astray," she said calmly, genially.

The statement, coupled with the lady's kind tone, was so jarring that Merope raised her head to look at the lady in confusion. She had to have been at least eighty years old, but she wasn't hunched and bitter with age. Her blue eyes passed over Merope, taking the girl in. Unexpectedly, the lady neither wrinkled her nose nor scoffed in disgust. She didn't even glance at her ring finger. Instead she smiled right at her, absent of guile or contempt.

Merope went still and her lip trembled as she tore her eyes away. She couldn't recall anyone ever smiling at her in such a manner except for Tom, but Tom's smile had been artificial, manufactured by the potion. It was all too much—an ache was blooming inside her chest, but it wasn't from the usual sorrow.

"Fear not, young girl," the lady continued. "He will embrace you soon."

Although Merope had no idea to whom she was referring—this God person, she supposed—the lady's words reached out and touched her, like a caress on the cheek. For this moment, she was not a squib, not a useless wretch, a wicked wretch. She was just a girl, a lonely, beaten, abandoned girl.

The lady walked out into the cold and Merope remained seated with her eyes closed, a single tear running down her burning, dirt-caked cheek. Inside of her, Baby Tom woke up and started kicking. She placed her hands on her midsection fondly, waiting for him to bump against her palms.

She didn't actually know if the baby was male or female, of course, but if it turned out to be a boy, his name was going to be Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom after his father, Marvolo after her father. She had yet to think of a girl's name, but she knew she didn't want to encumber the baby with hers.

 _If you make it out of me alive, you'll be great_ , she told him in her head. _No, not if._ When _you make it._

She stood, rare determination flooding her mind. She must hold on long enough to give birth. Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she left the building as a series of bells started to ring. So that's where the sound of bells had been coming from. She'd heard a similar sound every so often when she'd gotten close to Little Hangleton. Perhaps there was a building like this there.

Merope would never find out. She was not likely to step foot in one of these buildings in the short time she had left. Her naivety and hope had left along with Tom, aging her years in a day. She knew she had not long to live, and she was equal parts impatient for and dreading the end. Maybe death would bring her more peace than life. At the very least, it would take her off the cold, damp streets of London.

No, Merope was not built to last in this world—neither the magic nor the muggle part. Somewhere along the line, there had been a defect in her creation. However, the baby would be different: handsome like Tom and smarter than any Gaunt. Unfortunately, Merope was unlikely to live long enough to confirm that, but one day Tom would feel remorse for leaving her in the cold and come fetch his son. That is why the baby's surname had to be Riddle, so he could be found. This was above all in importance.

But she needn't worry about dying for the moment. She had a few coins in her pocket, warmth under her cloak, and a rare sort of optimism. She didn't know who had decided to bless _her_ with a child, since she'd heard of so many who couldn't have one, but they had to have done so for a reason. This child was destined to mark the world in some way. It was that idea, more than anything tangible, that would keep Merope alive, at least until tomorrow.


	2. Amy Benson

_London, 1939_

There were many things Amy didn't like to do, and the list seemed to be growing longer with each day. This was not unusual—with the lack of food and insufferable heat, most of the children at Wool's didn't like to do much of anything other than wish they were somewhere else.

Amy, however, didn't want to do what came easily to everyone else, but not to her, what Mrs. Cole and the other matrons were always on her about doing, which was speak. She was content with never speaking again, at least not within the next five years.

It was not as if she had nothing to say. No, the problem was that Amy had too much she could not say, for _he_ would hear and make her pay again.

She'd once been very vocal, especially toward him. _Mad Tom Riddle_ , she and Dennis Bishop used to taunt. _Mental Tom Riddle._

As it turned out, Dennis was the mental one now; they'd come and taken him last month, the asylum workers. He hadn't wanted to speak either, but, unlike Amy, he threw explosive fits and lashed out on the other kids, hitting and kicking them and even the matrons. Yet he was still not as feared as Mad Tom Riddle, though. The latter had a more insidious, secretive way of harm.

A man had come for him, too, but from an asylum. Everyone was praying that oddly-dressed, auburn-haired man would take Tom Riddle the hell away from them. Boy did Wool's let out a collective breath that day last September when Tom had hauled out an old wooden trunk and left seemingly for good. However, Grace Wilson had overheard him telling Mrs. Cole that he was going to a boarding school, from which he'd have to return every summer.

No, he was not gone for good, but anything was better than having him around all the time. Amy felt uneasy even when he was out and about in the streets or vice versa.

Despite her relief that he was no longer around, Amy often why the school had chosen him over anyone else. Gracie speculated that, mad as he was, Tom was brilliant. Amy thought his madness outweighed any brilliance, but if the school was really an asylum, why would they let him return every summer? If they had been in the cave with him like Amy had, they'd lock him up and throw away the key.

It was nearing the end of June. Hopefully he'd never return…

"Amy!" the foul-mouthed and tempered Hattie barked from downstairs. "Get to the washing NOW!"

Reluctantly, Amy wiped her brow of sweat and stood from the cot. With a sigh, she tucked a comic she'd swiped from one of the boys under the worn piece of foam that passed for a mattress and left the tiny room. Unlike the others, Amy usually didn't mind the chores when it wasn't sweltering hot. They took her mind from her terrible past.

As she scrubbed sheets, pillow cases, and baby nappies, hands submerged in warm, soapy water, she let her mind drift into the future, where she imagined herself seated straight at a cool, metal desk, typing away. In this future, there was no Tom Riddle, no chores, no other whiny orphans, just her, a typewriter, and a paycheck that afforded her enough to eat, maybe a few pairs of shoes and dress patterns.

She'd work for Morgenstern's, the thriving law practice on Vauxhall Road. Not only would she learn all the dirty secrets of London's elite, but she wouldn't have to speak a word. All of their secrets would remain between her, the typewriter, and John Morgenstern.

The radio in the washroom was chatting away: "Things are heating up over on the eastside as Adolf Hitler and his army of Nazis kick up quite a fuss. German troops continue across Poland…looking like another Great War, folks…"

Amy did not like to think of war. Grace said that Germany would drop bombs on anyone who didn't comply with Hitler's regime. This Hitler was turning out to be a right pain in the arse; she hoped he wasn't interested in anything to do with Britain. If everyone was poor now, another war would only exacerbate the depression—

"Hello there, Amy," a voice said, stopping her cold. Worry of another Great War vanished instantly. Here was her own, private war if that voice belonged to…

 _No, he can't be, it's too early…_

She slowly turned around, feeling her lungs hardening to lead. Her breath caught in her throat as cold sweat gathered on her skin. Tom Riddle was standing in the doorway, smirking at her. "Missed me, have you?"

Wild-eyed, Amy shook her head. Her wet, soapy hands soaked her skirt, but she barely registered that. Why couldn't he just go away forever?"

"Well, that's not very nice, is it?" he mocked, grinning snidely. "Not when I've brought you back a gift."

Amy stood, dumbfounded, as she watched Tom slip a hand in his pocket and carefully withdraw it, scooping something into his palm.

She should've ran. Damn, she needed to _run_ , but her feet were stuck to the floor, as if one of the younger brats had slapped a layer of glue on the soles of her too-tight Mary Janes. Her whole body was locked, heart and lungs still. Would she ever breathe normally again?

The boy advanced closer. Only 12 years old, a year older than Amy—though he looked and acted much older—he was an expert at instilling fear. Once he was within arm's reach, he extended his hand, and she could see what he was holding: a tiny black snake with a greenish-yellow line down its back. It was simply coiled up in Tom's hand, harmless-looking really, except Amy was terrified of snakes.

She'd only ever seen two—one in the countryside. It was harmless, too, but then Tom had found it, whispered something to it in a hiss, and sent it to bite her. That was what she believed, though Mrs. Cole had dismissed it as ridiculous. "Snakes don't understand English, Amy," she'd scolded.

"But it _listened_ to him," Amy had insisted, back when her voice box worked so easily.

Tom hadn't appreciated being tattled on. The next time they'd gone on a trip, it was to the sea…even picturing it raised the fine hairs on her arms and neck.

Now in front of her, Tom was hissing at the snake, and it was growing, just like last time, getting longer and fatter, plopping out of his hand and onto the floor. Menacing hisses filled her ears as her heart stopped and cold fear raced through her veins. She was frozen; the thing was wrapping around her legs, expanding and squeezing…

She was back in that cold, slimy cave again as icy water soaked her feet and a big, black snake wrapped around her body, Tom egging it on. Beside her, Dennis had fainted, and black fog was beginning to creep into her own vision. The hissing, the thick body constricting her lungs, her breath escaping, the roar of the ocean, the chilly water flooding the cave…

Amy started to howl and thrash, but the blackness consumed her. A jolt of pain seared through her shoulder, hip, and right side of her face as she slammed into something cold and flat. She was being shaken, her head thudding against the hard surface.

"Jesus H. Christ, Amy!" someone was yelling in an oddly familiar voice.

Amy opened her eyes and found herself on the floor next to her cot. Her inner mechanisms had started back up, heart pounding and breaths coming our rapid, uneven.

The glow from the candle in the hall cast in shadow the figure of Gracie Wilson, who'd shaken her out of her nightmare.

"Date!" Amy blurted suddenly, the raspy word cutting through her throat.

Gracie was so stunned, she let go of Amy and fell onto her backside. "Did you just…?"

"Date!" Amy cried again desperately. "What—what's the date?"

Gracie hopped to her feet and leaned over her bed to look at the calendar taped to the wall. "For crying out loud, Amy, the first words since '37, and you ask for the poxy date?"

"You'd better shut the bloody hell up over there before I take off my slipper!" Hattie called from across the hall.

Moving quietly, Gracie crouched down next to Amy. "It's the 11th of June," she whispered. "1939," she added uncertainly, probably wondering if Amy had finally become unhinged like Dennis.

"He's not…he's not…?"

The other girl awkwardly patted Amy's head, knowing immediately who she was referring to. "No…not yet. Maybe they've chucked him in the asylum themselves," she said hopefully.

Just then, a tall, scarecrow-like figure blocked all light as Hattie appeared in the doorway, the slipper in her hand raised threateningly.

The two girls immediately scampered back into bed. Amy realized she was still trembling, that ugly black snake and harsh hissing filling her head. She was safe for now. She could sleep, although she knew her vacation from the constant edginess was coming to close.

For there was a mere nine days until Evil Tom Riddle returned…


	3. Myrtle Warren

AN: This one goes from 0-100 real fast.

 _Hogwarts, 1943_

Everything was going horribly. Then again, when had things ever been good for Myrtle? Not ever, although at least at home, she had her mum. Here at Hogwarts, she had no one.

Except for Olive Hornby and the other vicious third-year Ravenclaw girls, who never missed an opportunity to remind Myrtle of how fat and ugly she was. "Four Eyes" was a common insult, along with "Tub of Lard." Oh, how Myrtle _loathed_ Olive Hornby. She would get her back if it was the last thing she'd ever do.

Unfortunately, everyone at Hogwarts including Myrtle herself, was inclined to agree on her looks. Her appearance was dreadful. "Smile more," her mum always prompted, but there was nothing to smile about, especially not lately. In addition to being ugly and having terrible marks, her family was utterly skint from the war. Her dad was still recovering from the bombings in '41, and her mum couldn't seem to make enough to keep up with the rising prices. This year, Myrtle had to rely on second-hand robes and the Hogwarts fund. How _mortifying_.

Yes, Myrtle had been retreating to the first-floor bathroom lately. Not many used it, as it was down a corridor off the Entrance Hall, where most were too busy rushing to and from the Great Hall. She couldn't help it; she was a crier, but she would be damned if she cried in front of Hornby or any of the other spoilt brats at this school.

Somebody had caught her once as she was sneaking out of the bathroom back to Ravenclaw Tower, since it was after curfew: Tom Riddle, the Slytherin prefect everyone fawned over save for his housemates. All of the fifth and even some sixth-year girls in Ravenclaw fancied him.

Myrtle had been utterly miserable that whole day—first, there had been a letter from her mum saying Papa had gotten some sort of infection, landing him in the hospital. Hornby constantly teased her about her stupid glasses, as if Myrtle could've prevented being born half-blind. Then, in Potions, her entire potion, cauldron and all, had exploded and of course she couldn't afford another. Yes, it had been a terrible day, and she was not in the mood to be told off by a fifth-year.

"It's well after curfew, Miss Warren," he'd said in his pompous, arse-kissing voice. He thought he was some sort of professor or something, the ponce. "Return to your dormitory at once or it's ten points from Ravenclaw."

Myrtle had scowled at him. "I don't care," she hissed. "Go away, you obnoxious prat. You haven't got nearly as much power as you think, Riddle!"

His admittedly handsome face contorted into a glare. "Watch your mouth, mudblood," he said quietly.

It didn't take much to set Myrtle off into a fit of tears, but surprisingly, the slur had little effect on her. She knew her blood exempted her from the same acceptance as purebloods, but if Professor Dumbledore kept fighting against magical prejudice, perhaps the view would be slightly altered by 1947, the year Myrtle was projected to finish Hogwarts. If she didn't flunk out before then.

Regardless, it was Riddle who had a stronger reaction to the word than she: " _You're_ a mudblood, too, remember?" she shot back, watching him grow angrier as predicted. Although it was back in her first year, Myrtle remembered how the other Slytherin boys, the poncey rich ones, used to tease him. "Riddle the Mudblood," they'd called him, and "Poxy Orphan Tommy," since he lived in an orphanage.

"Shut up, you stupid little girl," Riddle snapped, "and get your filthy face out of my sight."

No longer glum but giddy at his aggravation, she teased, "Ooh, such nasty words from a prefect. You've got to set a better example than that, Riddle!" She flounced away before he could decide to hex her.

That had been about two months ago. Riddle hadn't retaliated, perhaps deeming Myrtle a waste of time. This wasn't unusual; many people thought the same, evidently, except for her mum and Hornby.

However, Myrtle made sure to stay safely in Ravenclaw Tower after curfew, for there were some odd events occurring around the castle. For one, Bruin Weasley had sunken into a mysterious coma. The speculation was that it was to prevent him from practicing for the final Quidditch game, as he was Gryffindor Captain, but then the same happened to Percival Weaver, who was not on the Quidditch team at all.

Then Florence Gillies had been petrified, and the fingers were starting to point: rumor had it that Rubeus Hagrid, a Gryffindor in Myrtle's year, was raising some type of beast within the castle and unleashing it on other students. Johnny Macmillan, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, claimed that the rumor was bullocks, that the Slytherins had created it to get Hagrid expelled because he was half-giant.

Myrtle didn't know what to believe, other than that the victim's blood-statuses were the same. They were all muggle-born. At least half of Hogwarts loathed muggles and muggleborns ever since the release of that poxy _Pureblood Directory_ , which claimed that the 28 purest families featured were superior to the rest, the most magical. Thus, Myrtle steered clear of the corridors at night.

Tonight, though, an exception had to be made. Myrtle just had to cry, and no way in hell was she letting it out in the dormitory, where Hornby could hear. She'd been picking on Myrtle in every class about the damn glasses, and it was either cry or hex her into oblivion. The latter was not an option, though, in case Dippet wrote to her mum again. Myrtle didn't want to stress her out even more.

She slipped quietly out of the common room and headed to the first-floor bathroom. She could've found a closer one, but she'd grown partial to that one after passing so much time there.

Usually she tried to contain her sobs, but sometimes they slipped out. Recently, Hornby had taken to calling her "Moaning Myrtle," and it was catching on throughout Hogwarts. Oh, how sick she was of that dreadful Hornby. Myrtle hated her, hated Hogwarts, and hated being a witch. She was no good at it.

"I want to go home," she said in the still air. It felt good to speak out loud, so she raised her voice and repeated it. "I want to go _home_! I don't belong at Hogwarts!" Even if someone had heard it, they wouldn't pause to investigate the ruckus. No one concerned themselves with her anymore.

The wails were bursting out now as Myrtle took off her glasses and pressed her fists against the slippery skin of her eyelids. She was so worked up, she didn't hear porcelain sliding against ceramic and a long, heavy body slithering out of a deep, hidden tunnel.

She did hear the hissing, though. She couldn't understand why someone would be hissing in this bathroom so late at night, but she knew it was a _boy's_ hissing. What on Earth was a boy doing in the girls' bathroom and just who did he think he was?

"Can't get a bloody second to myself around here," she muttered bitterly as she hopped up from the toilet seat, sliding on her glasses.

"Oi, you!" she shouted as she slammed back the lock and kicked open the door of the stall. "This is the _girls'_ room, you—"

Her voice cut off as she came face-to-face with two slimy yellow balls with black slits in the middle. The last cognitive process Myrtle's mind underwent was recognizing that they were a pair of eyes attached to something non-human before her brain shut off. Her vision went black, her heart stopped beating, and her lungs let out their last rattling breath as she crumpled to the floor, forehead slamming against the tiles.

"This bathroom is going to be a lot quieter," said the 16-year-old boy to his snake.

As the basilisk trailed back into the tunnel under his instruction, he stood less than 10 feet away from the dead girl. His first murder—the rush of adrenaline and arousal was something he'd never come close to feeling. It was unparalleled. He was _alive._


	4. Walburga Black

_Hogwarts, 1943_

Walburga was not pleased about her future. She had to find a wizard who was part of the Sacred 28 to marry, and the two around her age, James Avery and Felix Lestrange, wanted nothing to do with her. No loss, as she didn't want them either.

She was far from ugly—men often looked twice at her. However, two looks were usually all she got as they kept it moving, no doubt sensing the madness inside of her.

Yet despite her family's wealth and prominent reputation, everyone in Wizarding Britain knew the eldest daughter was mad. Two years ago, she had been held at St. Mungo's for the entire summer. What a dreadful summer that had been! Locked away in a bare room with an artificial window until some toad-faced Healer came in and declared her stable. What an utter disgrace, Irma and Pollux, her parents, had said. What an embarrassment to the Noble Black family name.

Despite their anger, the ordeal, as dreadful as it had been, had a substantial upside. The label of "mad" had lowered her parents' expectations of her. They knew she would never be perfect again, so they turned their attention to Alphard and Cygnus.

Unfortunately, Walburga was still expected to marry soon after finishing Hogwarts. Who would want a 20-year-old bride? Irma had asked. Her daughter did not much care what her future husband would want. A virgin, that was well-known. Walburga was a virgin, but she planned on changing that during her last year of Hogwarts. If she was going to further disgrace herself, the least she could do was choose a respectable pureblood bloke.

However, she didn't want any of them. She wanted a bloke, yes, but he was a half-blood and in the year below her. It did not make sense. Then again, nothing about Tom Riddle made sense. For example, why he was sorted into Slytherin.

Cygnus claimed that Riddle was directly descended from Salazar Slytherin through the Gaunt line. The Gaunts were in The Pureblood Directory, but who the hell was Riddle? A muggle name if Walburga had ever heard one. She thought the story was bollocks, but Orion and Cygnus ate it up. Even Abraxas Malfoy followed Riddle around like a dog. It did not make sense.

Until this year, Walburga had loathed him. She did still, in fact, but desire is a goddamn strong agent. For her it had turned Poxy Orphan Tommy—clever name by James Avery—into this tall, dark, handsome wizard. The power he had over the others…Walburga salivated over it. All of her erotic dreams featured _him._

It didn't make sense. She knew that with patience, she could conjure a carefully-crafted plan, except patience was never really Walburga's forte.

Riddle spent the majority of his time in the library. He, like her, was not very social, though he, unlike her, was always polite. When she finally drew up her back and approached him, he greeted her properly and coldly.

"Good evening, Walburga," he said, not bothering to look up at the table. He hadn't retrieved any books, she noticed; he seemed to be reviewing his own notes. "Has Cygnus or Orion asked you to find me?"

Under normal circumstances, Walburga would have snapped a reply such as, "They do not ask me for such menial tasks." For this evening's purpose, that wouldn't help, so she held her tongue, a rare feat for the sharp-mouthed girl.

"No," she said quietly.

That got Riddle's attention. Their eyes met as he looked up at her questioningly. Both of their eyes were brown, but his were nearly black, while hers were closer to honey-colored.

"I…would like to speak with you about something," she said slowly, trying to keep her nerve. "If that's alright with you?"

It was rather amusing to see his confusion, as he was doubtlessly accustomed to her snide comments and looks of disgust. It only lasted a second—his face returned to blank as he replied, "Yes, it's alright."

When he stood, she turned and found a dark, dusty aisle close to the Restricted Section. Riddle rolled up his parchments as he walked.

"Listen, Riddle…erm, Tom," she said quickly. "I need a favor of sorts. For lack of a better term."

He simply stood, watching her with polite interest.

"Not a favor such as writing my Charms essay, no. More like a…" _Sexual favor_ , she finished in her head but did not dare speak out loud. Only a lowly, classless muggle slag would proposition a bloke in such a manner, certainly not a Black heiress. Yet here she was, ready to toss all moral standing to the wind.

Riddle, to his credit, interpreted her pause correctly. He raised his dark eyebrows and seemed to be holding back a smirk. "Are you asking me to take you to bed, Walburga?"

Despite the tingle on her cheeks, a burning image raced through her mind: taking his face into her hands, bringing her mouth to his as his hands gripped her rear, rocking herself on his lap, rubbing against the erection under his trousers…

As if he could see the image as well, the polite look cleared from Riddle's face, replaced with slight amusement. "Well, isn't this a surprise. Why would the Lady Black desire a 'filthy half-blood orphan'? Your words, Walburga."

"Listen, I didn't mean that," she blurted, trying to keep out the high-pitched whine her voice tended to take when something didn't go her way. "Your blood status…matters not in this case."

"Well, thank you, Walburga, that's very flattering," he replied mockingly. "Unfortunately, I will have to pass up your offer."

Anger flooded her veins at his condescending rejection. "You dare refuse me, one of the most coveted pureblood witches at Hogwarts? Who else of such noble stock would offer herself to _you_? Who do you think you are, Riddle, some kind of god?"

Riddle chuckled snidely. "Not too far off, my dear. Now if you'll please excuse me, I've got to work on my essay."

He was lying—that piece of parchment was not an essay. However, that hardly mattered, as the sting of rejection had consumed Walburga's mind. How _dare_ that half-blood deny _her_! Clouded by rage, she reached out and snatched his arm as he turned away.

"I'll tell my brother and cousin you're not worth their time," she hissed. "I'll remind him who you really are."

"Be my guest," he responded, shrugging casually. "Although I doubt it would have any effect, considering everyone knows who _you_ really are."

Walburga had to admit that she was rendered speechless by a 16-year-old boy who had never shown any type of scathing toward anyone, not even Avery and Lestrange when they had bullied him in years past. He took advantage of her silence, adding, "Goodnight, Walburga," as he pulled his arm out of her grip.

"You bas—"

"Oh, and sweet dreams," Riddle told her, turning back and smirking knowingly.

Walburga's face flushed scarlet; he couldn't have known about her dreams, could he? All those nights she fantasized with her bed hangings drawn and her breaths coming out in rapid puffs. All about him touching her, kissing her, taking her… How badly she wanted him, even as he threw her a look of satisfaction, further driving into the wound of humiliation, as he disappeared down the next aisle.

That half-blood _bastard_. How could he refuse the gift of a night with Walburga Black? No other respectable witch would consider him, regardless of how attractive he was. He was thoroughly unappreciative of her sacrifice. She _hated_ Tom Riddle.

And yet, Walburga's desire for him was as strong as ever. No, it did not make sense.

AN: For some backstory on this and the upcoming chapters, read "Recipe for Disaster."


End file.
